


Morning

by Deanon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Series Spoilers, So much angst, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deanon/pseuds/Deanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Arthur's death, Merlin didn't leave the lakeside for four days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning

**Author's Note:**

> A brief reaction fic to the end of the series, so that I could get all my feelings out and go back to writing happy college AU's.

After Arthur's death, Merlin did not leave the lakeside for four days.

He knew that he should. He knew that Arthur would have wanted him to get back to Camelot and inform Gwen of what had happened; he knew that decrees about magic were going to be issued and he should be present for them. He still didn’t know what other casualties had been suffered in that great battle. He hadn’t told anyone about the death of Morgana and thus the definitive end of the war.

He didn’t care.

He felt sick with grief. He felt the weight of it, the futility of it all, down to his bones, burning in his blood and making every breath a struggle.

If they hadn’t stopped to rest; if he’d pushed the horses a little harder; if the horses hadn’t run off; if he hadn’t wasted time in the woods in the first place, trying to heal Arthur himself.

( _There is nothing you can do_ , Kilgharrah had said as he held Arthur’s lifeless body.  _Some lives have been foretold._

And he had accepted every other part of his destiny, but this – this he could not accepted, even when it was done and over. This was too great and terrible.)

So he stayed by the lakeside, sleeping in fitful starts when the tears lulled him there, eating rarely, starting fires and putting them out to rid himself of the magic burning underneath his skin. He felt at once restless and heavy; he would pace and burn with rage, ranting out loud; at Arthur, at the dragon, at Mordred, at Morgana, at Camelot. And then just as suddenly, he would collapse as though there was no life left in him, place his head in his hands and cry at the vast unfairness of it.

He drowned in grief and guilt and loss.

He thought of the dragon’s words. Of the prophecy of the once and  _future_  king; he thought of the way he could change his appearance at will now, the way his magic had come back different and stronger in the caves.

He thought of Albion, and of Camelot, and ached with wondering when they would need Arthur most; could not conceive of a way it couldn’t be  _now_ , just at the end of one war but still with so much left to do.

“We _need you_ ,” he had screamed at the lake, as though somehow Arthur would hear him, as though somehow it had been his choice.

“I need you,” he had said, and listened to the wind in the grass and the waves on the shore.

(He’d wanted to scream, then, wanted to set the whole forest on fire with the depth of his grief, but the weights pulling on his limbs and his heart had been too much, and he’d crumpled to the ground instead.)

He began recalling the tales of his and Arthur’s adventures, and quite without meaning too he began telling them out loud. After a while of doing this – he’d lost track of time quite a while ago, but it was probably late evening on the third day – he’d started addressing the stories to Freya, as though she were just under the surface of the lake, listening to him.

(And perhaps she was; the magic that held her there was deep and immortal, of the old religion, and he didn’t pretend to fully understand it.)

He told her of how they met, of how he used magic to cheat in his first fight with Arthur and then used magic to save Arthur’s life. He told her of his reluctance to believe the prophecies.

He told her of his insistence that they must be thinking of the wrong Arthur, and he’d startled himself by laughing a little at that.

He told her of their growing friendship and trust. He told her of how Arthur had been willing to die for him, and the many, many times he’d been willing to die for Arthur. He told her of all the times he’d saved Arthur’s life by magic.

He told her, sincerity deep in his then-hoarse voice, that he had loved Arthur as he had never loved anyone else, as his king and his friend and his greatest purpose.

Near sunrise, he drifted off into a tear-streaked doze by the lakeshore. The water just barely kissed his toes, and he dreamed of Freya.

Of her soft voice, whispering to him,  _you have grieved enough, Merlin_.  _It is time to get up._

_I still feel broken,_ he’d told her.  _I still feel lost_.

_I know,_ she had whispered. And it was impossible, but he could have sworn that he felt her soft hands on his face, her forehead pressed to his, her deep and abiding serenity pouring into his soul, not healing the hurt but merely taking away some of the burning, raw ache of it.

 

_I know_ , she had said, and for the first time in days, Merlin slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He woke towards the evening of the fourth day, and his chest hurt. Everything hurt. He felt dirty, and hungry, and dazed from sleeping for so long.  The loss of Arthur was still his first thought, and it still hurt with a pain that made him feel entirely hollow.

But it didn’t burn quite so badly, now. He still felt it down to his soul, but he was beginning to feel other things, too; a desire to see if Gaius had returned safely. To find out how the battle had fared, and – though he dreaded it – to bring the kingdom news of Arthur and Morgana.

He got up, and – slowly, falteringly, as though he had forgotten how – made a camp. He washed himself as well as he could in the cold waters of the lake, and didn’t look at the distant tower of Avalon.

He remembered the liquid blue of Freya and the golden light of Arthur, and he laid down and slept a few hours.

It was a long journey home, but it had to be made.

“Can’t let Albion fall apart while you’re gone,” he’d said softly to the lake, after all the packing up was done.

“I’ll be waiting for you, Arthur,” he’d said, and he felt it, he meant it, in his bones and his blood and his soul.


End file.
